s not, or the sillier pride of what does not
deserve commendation in itself. By Mr. Harte's account, you are got very
near the goal of Greek and Latin; and therefore I cannot suppose that, as
your sense increases, your endeavors and your speed will slacken in
finishing the small remains of your course. Consider what lustre and
'eclat' it will give you, when you return here, to be allowed to be the
best scholar, for a gentleman, in England; not to mention the real
pleasure and solid comfort which such knowledge will give you throughout
your whole life. Mr. Harte tells me another thing, which, I own, I did
not expect: it is, that when you read aloud, or repeat parts of plays,
you speak very properly and distinctly. This relieves me from great
uneasiness, which I was under upon account of your former bad
enunciation. Go on, and attend most diligently to this important article.
It is, of all Graces (and they are all necessary), the most necessary
one.

Comte Pertingue, who has been here about a fortnight, far from
disavowing, confirms all that Mr. Harte has said to your advantage. He
thinks that he shall be at Turin much about the time of your arrival
there, and pleases himself with the hopes of being useful to you. Though,
should you get there before him, he says that Comte du Perron, with whom
you are a favorite, will take that care. You see, by this one instance,
and in the course of your life you will see by a million of instances, of
what use a good reputation is, and how swift and advantageous a harbinger
it is, wherever one goes. Upon this point, too, Mr. Harte does you
justice, and tells me that you are desirous of praise from the
praiseworthy. This is a right and generous ambition; and without which, I
fear, few people would deserve praise.

But here let me, as an old stager upon the theatre of the world, suggest
one consideration to you; which is, to extend your desire of praise a
little beyond the strictly praiseworthy; or else you may be apt to
discover too much contempt for at least three parts in five of the world,
who will never forgive it you. In the mass of mankind, I fear, there is
too great a majority of fools and, knaves; who, singly from their number,
must to a certain degree be respected, though they are by no means
respectable. And a man who will show every knave or fool that he thinks
him such, will engage in a most ruinous war, against numbers much
superior to those that he and his allies can bring